“Sloane. Why haven’t you asked me about Sloane?” I repeat, my hands clenching around the paper in my hands.
“Why would I? I’m assuming she’s alive, you haven’t told me otherwise,” he says, picking up another paper and lookingthrough it, comparing it to his notes. His words grate on me the wrong way.
“So you don’t care how she is?” I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why haven’t you asked about her?”
“Jesus Christ, Beckett. Why does it fucking matter? Do I have to ask you about all my children? Do you wanna know about mine and Chanel’s sex life, as well?”
I clench my jaw and glare at him. “No, of course not. I just think it’s weird that never once have you asked about her, and she’s been back for over a month now.”
“Why do you care so much?”
My jaw clenches tighter. “I don’t.”
“Clearly you do, or you wouldn’t be making such a big deal out of it.”
“I’m not making a big deal of it, Briar. I’m simply asking you a question, and you’re getting defensive about it.”
“I’m not getting defensive about it.” I give him a look, and he glares at me. “I’m not. I just don’t need to talk about my daughter when we’re right in the middle of looking at paperwork.”
I shake my head, an amused noise coming out of my mouth.
“What?” he asks, setting his papers down.
“Nothing, just forget I asked. What were you saying about the evidence?” I mumble, shrugging it off and trying to ignore the feeling inside my gut that’s saying that I should keep pushing him.
When I get home, Sloane isn’t anywhere to be seen. But I know she’s here, since her car is out front.
I don’t think anything of it, and I don’t go looking for her. I need space from her as much as she needs it from me. I do know that we will need to talk at some point. I don’t want us to have to avoid each other forever, but a few days won’t hurt.
After my shower, I wander back out into the main part of the house, and she’s still nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure why I’m disappointed, but part of me is. I shake off the feeling and decide on something a little stronger than beer to drink tonight.
It’s not often that I break open the liquor cabinet, but today feels like a good day for just one drink.
I pour a little bit of amber liquid into a glass before capping it and putting it back into the case. I stare at the drink for a long time, just thinking.
“Oh, sorry, I figured you would be in your office,” Sloane mumbles.
I turn around and look at her. “Not tonight. I got plenty of work done today with your dad,” I say, clearing my throat slightly.
“Right, my dad, yeah…” She steps into the kitchen and heads over to the stove to start making herself the tea that she makes every night. “How is he? My dad.”
She doesn’t look at me as she says it, but I can see the tightness in her shoulders as she says the worddad, like it pains her to think of that man in any kind of way.
“Good, he asked about you,” I lie, looking back down at my drink, which I still haven’t touched.
She lets out a small scoff, and I can almost see her rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know. I’m aware that he doesn’t care about me. He probably didn’t even remember the fact that I’m in your house,” She says dryly.
I can feel her pain, hear it in her tone. She’s really good at pretending that his absence doesn’t bother her, but I can tell that it does.
She turns and looks at me, her eyes darting to my glass on the table, then back up to me. A curious look crosses her face. “Do you usually just stare at your drinks before you consume them?” she asks, changing the subject, and it makes me smile.
“Not normally.”
